


Gently, You Go

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Takes place after Act 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But you came back," Hawke said simply. "Despite all of that, you came back."</p><p>Isabela leaves, comes back, and leaves again. She wishes Hawke would do something, anything, but wait for her inevitable return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gently, You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Isabela's infamous Act 3 codex entry. In my mind, this is the "tense exchange" the two shared before Isabela blasted away for three whole years.

In the midst of the nobles yelling, applauding (but giving their new blood-soaked Champion a wide berth; no one wanted more gore on their robes) and Meredith’s templars pouring in to restore order and clean up the Arishok’s mess, the woman the entire duel was fought over slipped away unnoticed.

Unnoticed, except by one.

Hawke pried herself away from Aveline and Merrill’s fussing (“That cut is going to get infected, Hawke, let Anders take a look at it.” “Oh dear, that doesn’t sound good at all. Although infection might help keep certain demons away…”), but by the time she had extricated herself from Aveline’s firm, heavy hand on her shoulder, Isabela was gone.

“I’m sorry, Aveline but I—”

Hawke was rescued by Varric’s sudden materialization.

“You might not want to count on Blondie’s availability just yet,” he said. “Last I saw him he was busy lecturing a couple of suspicious templars.”

“Shit.” Aveline sighed. “I’d better drag him away before he pulls out his manifesto and gets himself arrested.”

“That does sound fun,” Merrill said brightly. “Fenris will want to be there if Anders gets arrested, though. Try not to die while we’re gone, Hawke.”

As they disappeared into the crowd, Hawke turned to give Varric her thanks, but he smiled and crooked his head before she could say anything.

“Go,” he said. “But you owe me a pint.”

Hawke caught up to Isabela on Viscount’s Way. She was sitting on the steps, staring fixedly at the ground and picking at her boots.

“If you’re running away again,” Hawke said, arms crossed, “you’re not off to a very good start.”

Isabela snorted without turning around. She couldn’t admit it to herself, but she had been waiting for her to follow. “I couldn’t leave without giving you a chance to lecture me. I have some decency, you know.”

“When have I ever lectured you? And when have _you_ ever _let_ someone lecture you?”

“Fair points,” said Isabela, leaning back on her hands, “but today was a low day, even for me.”

“Would you like me to lecture you?” Hawke offered dryly. “I’m certain I have plenty of material to go on.”

“On second thought,” she muttered, getting to her feet, “maybe right now _is_ a good time to run for the hills.”

“Don’t.” Hawke winced, hating how pathetic she suddenly sounded. Was about to sound. “I’m not going to lecture you, I promise.”

“ _You_ don’t, Hawke. I can’t do this right now.” Not now, not then (“What about love?” she had asked), not ever, if she had anything to say about it.

“I promise,” Hawke repeated. Then she hesitated, but her next words tumbled out of her mouth unbidden. “I’m proud of you, you know. For doing the right thing.”

Isabela snorted again. “The _right thing?_ Giving back that blighted book certainly wasn’t the right thing for me.” She cast a disgusted glance at Hawke’s torn, bloodied armor, the laboured way she held herself that meant a rib was probably broken, maybe two. Isabela’s eyes burned, and she looked away. “And as far as I can see right now, it wasn’t the right thing for you, either.”

“It was the right thing for Kirkwall.” Hawke grimaced. She knew how hackneyed that sounded. So did Isabela. “Don’t look at me like that. You know it’s true, and I know how difficult it can be, to—to do what’s right, at the expense of what makes sense. That voice of reason and self-interest in your head probably wants to throttle you at the moment, right?”

She tried for a smile, but the joke fell flat. Isabela rolled her eyes.

“Please, Hawke. Don’t pretend we’re the same, you and me.” She spun around, prodded Hawke’s shoulder. Knowing she was injured, trying to provoke a reaction.

“You make your jokes”—poke—“throw around that goofy grin”—poke—“but you’re not _really_ selfish. You do the right thing, again and again and again.” Poke, poke, poke. “But me? I’m the real deal, Hawke. An honest-to-Maker lying, cheating _scumbag_.”

She was in Hawke’s face now, punctuating every point with a sharp prod (surely leaving bruises, and opening the wound from when the Arishok clipped her shoulder), but at the end of her tirade Hawke grabbed her hand, stopping her.

“But you came back,” she said simply. “Despite all of that, you came back.”

Her eyes were soft, but her grip on Isabela’s hand was hard, vicelike. Like her bones would fall apart inside her body if she let go. In her eyes and her grip, Isabela saw hurt, hope, and some emotion, some _affection_ , that she could not bear to think about or put a name to, but even nameless the same feeling rose up in Isabela’s chest and threatened to drown her.

Hawke wanted to kiss her. Isabela wanted to shove her away. (And kiss her, Maker, she wanted to kiss her.)

Instead, she spat the words in her face: “I didn’t do it for them. I did it for you.” She yanked her hand away and didn’t meet Hawke’s eyes. Her final words were softer. “It was always about you.”

And just like that first night, Hawke didn’t stop her, didn’t run after her, as Isabela walked away. And just like that first night, Isabela couldn’t stop a strange part of her from wishing she did.


End file.
